Chapter 13 Perl #2
Perl looks at the red marks at the corners of Kerik’s mouth from where it was stretched around the jewelled silver ball.
He feels unpleasant desire roll through his gut.
Kerik is leaning back, half naked and as recklessly brave as ever.
Perl swallows against the flip of lust in his belly.
He would slide to his knees if Kerik asked it of him.
He would beg on the floor before him. But he says, “Why wouldn’t I refuse? ”
Kerik pushes off the wall and takes a step towards Perl, crowding him.
Perl feels his heart beat harder. He knows Kerik was fond of seducing men in Attar.
Is this how he did it? “I am playing my part,” Kerik says in a low, rough whisper.
“Your obedient thrall. You must play yours. My Master.” Kerik leans close.
His voice drops even lower. “Drag me back in there and whip me, faerie.”
Perl feels frozen before Kerik. “What?” he manages.
“You think I can’t take it? Whip me.”
“You’re not serious.”
Kerik’s smile is slow and genuine. Almost as if he relishes what will happen next. “Oh, I am. I spat in that kush’s face. I’ll take a whipping for it. It was worth it.”
Perl swallows. His throat is thick and sour. “Very well. I suppose it will help my claim to you.”
He feels sick at the thought but Kerik is right, they need to do this or the whole thing is likely over. Exeinil will declare the first test voided and that will be that. Kerik will be sent to the pit then offered up as a thrall to any high fae who is interested.
It will not be pleasant. For either of them.
Perl marches back into the parlour dragging Kerik on his leash. There are not many fae in the hall. But Vane is still present. As are Exeinil and her thrall. And several of the dark-clad night fae who do not typically take their beds until long after the midnight bell.
Exeinil looks quite concerned as Perl walks back in, rising and saying, “Perlash-zeren-ai, your thrall’s behaviour towards Prince Vane means I will be forced to declare the first test void unless you punish it.”
Perl nods. In response he doesn’t address Exeinil, but the entire parlour. “My grand majesty, high fae of Vylenor,” Perl announces. “My thrall committed a transgression against our fair Prince of Oria, Vanel-areti-ai. For this, he will be whipped before all.”
Vane looks at Perl. He’s back on the dais, posing idly on his throne. As Perl gets closer he says, “So you have finally found the will to Master that thing.”
Perl gives Vane a polite nod of his head. “Yes, my prince. I agree. He should be whipped for his behaviour towards you, his better. He is a mortal thrall and needs to learn respect. He will now beg your forgiveness.”
Perl turns to Kerik and gives him a sharp look. Kerik’s face is blank, although Perl can only imagine the amused, drawling comment he would make if he wasn’t concentrating on playing his part.
Kerik steps forward, moving in front of Perl. Perl sees Exeinil, craning forward to watch, her face full of delight.
Kerik drops to his knees, all graceful strength. His voice is soft, clear but quite submissive. “Prince of Oria,” he says. “I beg your assent to this punishment for the great crime I committed to your person.” He leans forward and presses his forehead to the floor.
Vane stands and steps down from the dais, coming close to Kerik. “Really, you ought to be sent to the pit to have that sort of thing forced out of you. You need breaking.” He kicks at Kerik’s flank with a booted foot, hard enough to make Kerik gasp and Perl want to kill.
“Yes, Sire,” Kerik says, sitting up again and leaning back on his heels.
Perl watches Kerik with fascination. He’s so reckless and impulsive.
Most of the time he doesn’t seem to have a thought in his head about what he’s about to do or what the consequences of his actions might be, but somehow, that makes his play acting very convincing.
He’s so simple and straightforward, it’s almost as if one forgets he could be telling untruths.
Exeinil leans forward, beaming. “You would wield the whip yourself, or would you prefer a guard?”
“I will wield it.” Perl lifts his chin.
Exeinil smiles. “Ah, yes, I do see how this thrall is yours. You would even beat it yourself. It’s so erotic when a Master is possessive of his thrall. Don’t you agree, Vanel?”
“It’s a delight,” Vane says tightly.
Perl takes a breath. He turns to face the platform, Perl makes a bold gesture to change the stool into a whipping post. More expansive than is really necessary to create such a piece of magic, but this is about the performance now.
If he can distract the court with showmanship he will be able to get away with doing as little to punish Kerik as possible.
The whipping post is almost too elaborate. Perl is still getting used to the strength of the magical power in the air of Vylenor.
It is silver. A vertical bar with a high cross piece that glitters with gemstones, pale blue like Perl’s eyes. Elaborate swirls of filigree cover the vertical pole, catching the ice light. From each of the cross pieces, short glittering chains dangle.
He hears a few gasps. But it is not surprising that the fae court appreciates a beautiful device meant to torment a mortal thrall.
Perl takes Kerik by the arm and drags him roughly from his knees, marching him up onto the platform.
He directs him with sharp movements of his hands to stand facing the post, then takes each of Kerik’s arms, lifts it and attaches the cuff on his wrist to one of the dangling chains.
When this is done, Kerik is stretched, up, arms chained above his head and pulled wide.
He has to raise himself a little on his toes.
Kerik’s bare chest spread and vulnerable.
Perl swallows. But he knows that it's good that Kerik looks so attractive in this moment.
It will add to the thrill of the thing. And that is the point.
To give the fae something so compelling that all they remember of the first test is how beautiful and arousing Kerik looked under Perl’s whip.
With a small, steadying breath, Perl flicks his wrist and pulls a whip from the air. It’s a delicate thing, with a glittering silver handle and a fall of slender tails that shimmer. Again, a little too elaborate. But the parlour is rapt. Watching him.
He walks around Kerik. He feels cold when he sees his face. But he steps forward, holds the whip to Kerik’s mouth and has him kiss it. Kerik lifts his eyes to Perl’s as he makes a soft pout and presses it to the whip’s handle, so close to Perl’s fingers.
Perl’s heart is beating like a war drum.
This close he can murmur to Kerik, unheard. “Are you sure?” he says. With no idea what he could possibly do if Kerik says no — if the reality of being chained like this for punishment and seeing the whip, have made him rethink his demand that Perl should whip him.
But all Kerik says, lips moving subtly and voice soft, is, “Make it look good.”
Sanctioned, Perl walks behind Kerik. He moves fast, gives himself no more time to think.
He raises the whip and brings it down on Kerik’s back.
Its fronds splay out as it flies and they smack into flesh.
Kerik grunts, shifting his weight forward and when Perl draws the whip back, delicate red lines decorate his skin.
The fae crowd laughs and cheers. Perl takes a breath and throws the whip again.
He must have hit Kerik a little harder for the second blow, because Kerik is jolted forward, almost losing his balance for a moment as the chains holding his wrists take his weight.
Perl’s heart skips. A gasp slips from his lips.
But Kerik is steady again in a moment and he looks over his shoulder at Perl and gives him a tiny nod, willing him on.
So, he does not falter, does not pause. He beats Kerik three more times and with the last blow, the whip fronds break his skin; a little red blood flies into the air, which gains even louder cheers.
How much of this is required? Perl has seen savage beatings for minor things given to thralls in Vylenor.
Once, Perl had Seridil beat him with a whip. A whip a lot like this one. Chained to the bed in his chambers. But it had been sweet. The savagery of the pain becoming a strange pleasure. Sharp and real, but mixed with a soft dreamy feeling that he had loved.
He wishes he had done it more often. But he had been so concerned about being found out.
And he was right to be. He should not have done it at all.
But he had ached for it. As he aches now, wishing he could be the one chained on the platform and Kerik the one wielding the whip, deciding how many strokes he deserved.
Kerik controlling him, deciding how much he ought to suffer.
Perl swallows hard and hits Kerik once more. He makes this one the hardest yet, causing Kerik to cry out in pain. And that is six strokes of the whip. Enough to make him bloody. That will have to be enough. Perl drops the whip and it vanishes into the air before it hits the ground.
He walks forward and murmurs, “Thank you,” into Kerik’s neck as he releases the cuffs from the post’s chains with a touch of his fingers. The whipping post fades into the air, becoming a silver mist and then nothing at all.
As soon as he is free, Kerik falls to his knees, as if so exhausted by his punishment he can no longer stand. Perl walks around in front of Kerik and snaps, “Kiss my boots in contrition, thrall.”
Kerik shuffles forward and plants a kiss on the toes of each of Perl’s boots.
Perl looks down at Kerik on his knees. His back is a mess of marks.
Angry red and some of them weeping a little blood.
He feels slightly sick. He did that. He did it with his own hands.
He swallows hard. He would like to touch that damaged flesh.
Soothe it. Lick at those trickles of blood with his tongue.
It would likely serve his cause well if he did. If he fell upon Kerik, crazed with lust, everyone in this hall would think him overwhelmed with the thrill of causing pain in his thrall. A true Master.
They would never guess his thoughts are far more forbidden.
He does not touch Kerik. He does not trust himself not to fall to his knees before him and beg for his own taste of the lash.
Instead he murmurs quietly to Kerik, “Are you hurt, badly?”
Kerik looks up at Perl and winks. His mouth moves silently but the words are clear. “Worth it.”